The Killing Kind
by Rietta
Summary: Crossover with New Tricks. When both the Met’s cold case teams are individually assigned the same case, is a breakdown in communication to blame or are more sinister forces at work? On hold until my muse comes back, it's busy elsewhere atm. Sorry!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Waking the Dead or New Tricks or any of their episodes or characters. I'm just borrowing them for a trip down the pub- I promise I'll return them (sober!) in time for work tomorrow.

**Spoilers:** Waking the Dead: Up to the end of series 6. New Tricks: Up to the end of series 4

**Timeframe: **Set after WtD S6E4: Mask of Sanity; and after NT S4E6: Buried Treasure

**Rating:** T

**Synopsis:** When both the Met's cold case teams are individually assigned the same case, is a breakdown in communication to blame or are more sinister forces at work?

**Notes:** The idea of an NT-WtD crossover is shamelessly stolen and adapted from shadowsamurai's fantastic fic 'Waking Old Dogs'- which you should seriously read, if you haven't already.

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**Prologue**

It's a cold and rainy Tuesday towards the end of August. The front door is closed but not locked as the young girl with the dark hair pushes it open. That means Mummy's home. Good. She wants to tell Mummy all about how amazing her flute lesson was. She goes into the kitchen, Daddy hot on her heels. Mummy is not there. Daddy stays and puts the kettle on whilst his daughter goes through to the living room. Mummy is not there either, nor is she in the dining room. Where can she be? Small footsteps pad upstairs; a small voice calls out: "Mummy?" There is no answer. She's nearly at the top of the stairs now, so she calls again. No answer. She looks in her bedroom, but Mummy isn't in there, or in the spare bedroom. The door to Mummy and Daddy's bedroom is closed. She knocks softly- perhaps Mummy has a headache. "Mummy?" But all she can hear is Daddy moving around in the kitchen downstairs. Slowly she pushes open the door, her eyes drawn to the bed. She stiffens, her eyes widen. And then she screams.


	2. Chapter 1: 7:45am

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Waking the Dead or New Tricks or any of their episodes or characters. I'm just borrowing them for a trip down the pub- I promise I'll return them (sober!) in time for work tomorrow.

**Spoilers:** Waking the Dead: Up to the end of series 6. New Tricks: Up to the end of series 4

**Timeframe: **Set after WtD S6E4: Mask of Sanity; and after NT S4E6: Buried Treasure

**Rating:** T

**Synopsis:** When both the Met's cold case teams are individually assigned the same case, is a breakdown in communication to blame or are more sinister forces at work?

**Notes:** The idea of an NT-WtD crossover is inspired by and shamelessly stolen and adapted from shadowsamurai's fantastic fic 'Waking Old Dogs'- which you should seriously read, if you haven't already.

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**Chapter 1**

**7:45am  
**

**NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT**

"Morning, Sandra."

At the sound of the familiar voice, Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman looked up from the staff book where she was signing in at the front desk.

"Morning, Sir."

If she didn't exactly look over the moon to see the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, she might be forgiven. It was 7:45am and his facial expression clearly stated that the next five words out of his mouth would be 'A word in my office.'

"A word in my office."

Struggling to suppress a smile at the predictability of it all, she nodded.

"Of course, Sir."

Falling into step beside her boss, she cast a sidelong glance at him.

"Are you assigning us a new case then?"

Her team had wrapped up their previous case 24 hours earlier, and rather than allowing Sandra to select a new case immediately, DAC Strickland had insisted the team took the rest of the day off. They had all been out of the door like a shot, ready to raise a glass to their guvnor's guvnor; but Sandra herself had been a little suspicious, positive that there was something else behind the generous gesture besides the fact that it had 'coincided' with perfect sailing weather and thus permitted Strickland the best part of the day off to spend with his partner. Oh well, she was bound to find out soon enough how accurate her instinct was.

However, instead of replying to his subordinate's query, Strickland raised an eyebrow in a manner which seemed to say 'wait 'til we get to my office.'

Conversations, Sandra reflected with a whimsical smile, seemed to include a lot fewer words nowadays.

**WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD**

Meanwhile, on the other side of London, another couple were experiencing more or less the same situation. Peter Boyd and Grace Foley lay in bed with eyes locked, a heated debate passing between them without a word being uttered. (Grace needed at least one coffee before Boyd literally began shouting.)

'If you don't get your lazy behind into that shower NOW we'll be late for work,' cobalt blue eyes flashed warningly.

Two deep pools of obsidian glared back.

'But the bed is so comfy, and the company so good...'

'Flattery will get you nowhere, DSI Boyd. Now get. Up. NOW!'

'Christ, you can be so harsh sometimes, Dr Foley!'

The cobalt eyes softened for a moment.

'If you get up within the next ten seconds, I'll make the coffee- even though it's your turn.'

The obsidian eyes softened too.

'I knew there was a reason I love you.'

'Peter, you're still here...'

'Alright, alright, I'm going! Keep your hair on!'

Reluctantly dragging his gaze away from the intoxicating cobalt eyes, Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd hauled himself out of bed to begin another hard day's work. Even as he padded over to the bathroom door, he could feel the tenderness in the gaze which followed his every move. He smiled as he closed the door behind him, cutting off her gaze but not her affection. Christ he was a lucky man! As he stepped into the shower, he wondered if the Commissioner would have a new case for his unit yet. Although he had greatly enjoyed an unexpected day off yesterday to spend with Grace, the workaholic copper did hope that he would find something interesting waiting in the office when he arrived in an hour's time. Oh well, he would have to wait and see.

**NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT**

Esther Lane was somewhat relieved when the doorbell rang. She did love her husband, but having Brian moping round the house for most of the previous day, lost without a case, had been beginning to wear on her nerves slightly by the time the last light went out in the house. As a consequence, she treated the dour man on her doorstep to an especially bright smile.

"Morning Jack! He's just finishing his breakfast. It's lovely of you to give him a lift whilst his bike's being mended!"

"Oh, it's not a problem, Esther," ex-Detective Superintendent Jack Halford replied easily. "I think we'll get a new case today, so he shouldn't be under your feet driving you mad for much longer."

"I heard that," ex-Detective Inspector Brian Lane muttered darkly as he entered the hallway.

"Well done, Sherlock," his colleague responded drily. "Now hurry up and get in the car- Sandra wants us in early so we can make a good start on this case, whatever it might happen to be."

"Have a good day, dear," Esther ordered her husband, expertly steering him out of the door with her free hand.

"Will do." Brian took the hint and vacated the house with all possible speed.

**WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD**

Dr. Eve Lockhart's day began well. By 7:45am she was exclaiming delightedly over the pattern of decay on a particular corpse she had been monitoring closely. It was a perfect example for the conditions she had left it in. Giving a smile of satisfaction, she switched on the voice recorder in her hand and reported her findings. This task completed, she flipped open her laptop and typed up one or two notes, which she saved before shutting down the computer and casting a quick glance around the room. Everything was perfectly in order. Everywhere her gaze fell lay a specific if gruesome scientific study, all of which greatly helped her in her role as the official forensic pathologist of the Metropolitan Police's Cold Case Unit. It was a job she loved, and eager to be in her working lab- not that they had a case at that precise moment, but hopefully that was to change within the next few hours- the slender brunette gathered her things into her bag and headed for the door; lighting a cigarette as soon as she stepped outside. Making her way over to her car, she dumped her bag on the passenger seat, finished her cigarette and put her seatbelt on. Within two minutes she was on the road back into London, leaving behind the scientific research facility her colleagues insisted on nicknaming 'The Body Farm'. The sooner she got to work, the sooner she would find out what the Commissioner wanted them working on next.

**NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT ~ NT**

The ringing phone was greeted with a flurry of curses and a violent shove off the nightstand. Undaunted, a voice crackled insistently from the receiver.

"Gerry! Come on, pick the phone up! I know you just threw it on the floor..."

Resigning himself to the fact that jamming the pillow over his head was not going to make the persistent voice go away, ex-Detective Sergeant Gerry Standing leaned out of bed and lifted the receiver.

"Piss off, Brian, it's quarter to eight, for fuck's sake!"

"Well, yes," the voice on the other end replied as if that fact were obvious. "And you're heading straight for a bollocking from Sandra if you don't get up this instant."

"I'll be in for nine! It is when I'm contracted to start work!" Gerry retorted as he reluctantly hauled himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

"That's never been an issue before," Brian pointed out frustratingly.

"Bye, Brian."

Not currently possessed with the patience to deal with his friend and colleague, Gerry hung up abruptly and lobbed the receiver in the general direction of the bed as the bathroom door swung closed. Sod the new case. With a hangover like that, he'd rather stay in bed.

**WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD ~ WTD**

"Merde!"

Detective Inspector Spencer Jordan blinked. He could have sworn he just heard a voice, and a slightly despairing one at that. But then again, his head hurt so much he was probably imagining things. Although, he didn't normally imagine in French... Shaking his head to clear it, he instantly concluded that the action was a mistake, and groaned loudly.

"Merde, merde, merde!"

That voice again. Ok, he definitely wasn't imagining it this time. Come to that, it did sound rather familiar. Sitting up slowly, clutching his head, he glanced carefully to his left. And promptly provided a translation.

"Shit!"

A familiar pair of amber eyes stared blearily back at him through a ruffled mane of thick red hair.

"Oh Jesus, we didn't... Did we?" the DI demanded, and the redhead sat up slowly too, with another string of French curses.

"Well, I'm fully dressed... I think," she concluded, not even the hour or the alcohol spoiling the pretty lilt of her accent. "How about you?"

Her companion ran his hands down his sides experimentally.

"Shit, I don't seem to be wearing anything!" Something seemed painfully tight down below though. Slowly and carefully, Spencer pushed back the covers and rose to his feet to investigate. Barely had his feet touched the floor when the redhead beside him burst into a gale of laughter.

"Oh, Jesus," the DI muttered, flushing scarlet.

"I'll be needing those back," DC Stella Goodman managed to choke out between giggles, gesturing at the pair of genuinely tiny knickers her colleague was wearing.

"You're not going to tell Boyd about this, are you?" the DI clarified as he hobbled to the bathroom in search of his dignity.

Stella snorted. "What, and be forced to confess that I went on a pub crawl on my afternoon off and fell into bed with you?"

"Gee, thanks!" Spence muttered darkly, wrapping a towel securely round his waist before heading back into the bedroom to find a pair of nice, spacious, manly boxers. "Anyway, you said we didn't."

"True," the redhead conceded, rising to her own feet with another smattering of French oaths. "Ok, let's start with the important questions- one: what am I going to wear today? Two: Do you have any aspirin? Three: By which method do you think Boyd will kill us? And most importantly- where do you keep the tap?"

It was Spence's turn to splutter with laughter as he found a clean pair of trousers to pull on. "One- you're just going to have to wear the clothes you have on, unless you want to walk home and change. But then you'd be late as well as hung-over, and Boyd would be less than less than impressed. Two- of course I have aspirin! But if there's only two tablets left they're mine. Three- I don't think he's strangled anyone in a while. And four- you'll find the tap in the kitchen. You'll find the kitchen downstairs. You'll find the stairs through that door- DON'T fall down them!"

Stella threw a pillow at him. "One- I hate you. Two- that's not fair. Three- what about Patterson last month? And four- I'm not that stupid."

As she spoke, she headed for the door and began to make her way downstairs, forcing Spence to yell his replies after her.

"One- I hate you too. Two- of course it's fair! My flat, your idea. Three- would you prefer it if he shot us? And four... It doesn't sound like that."

As Spencer had reached his third point, a muffled crash and yet another string of French curses had drifted up from the bottom of the stairs. Heading out onto the landing as he buttoned his shirt, he was just in time to see Stella haul herself to her feet and treat him to a one-fingered salute. Struggling to hide his amusement, he took pity on his friend.

"If you make the coffee, I'll share the aspirin..."


End file.
